Read Online Assignment — Stella Marni by Edward S. Aarons - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Edward S. Aarons
Tags: det_espionage
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Start digging under the rocks and stones. Check on that Krame fellow who has the studio. Trace back Frank's moves. Find old Albert Marni.
He wanted to get to Stella.
He told himself that maybe this thing wasnt for him, and he could call McFee right now and get off it and then call Deirdre and have her wait up for him in her house on the Chesapeake and he could be there in three hours for coffee and sit with her by a fire in the fireplace when the sun came up this morning over the bay, with all the solitude and intimacy of her place just for the two of them.
He thought of Stella, remembered the crazy, hot look in Blossom's eyes when her name was mentioned, and something chilled in him and he felt fear for her, because Blossom hadn't taken her back to the district office for questioning. He had taken her someplace else. A private place. And Stella would have had to go along, like it or not, until it was too late when she discovered what Blossom might have had in mind...
Durell quit his hotel room abruptly. There was an urgency in him now. He was sure Stella Marni had some answers for him. And he wanted to know whether she had tricked him deliberately, or if Blossom had forced her away. He believed it to be the latter, since Stella had actually gone to his hotel room; she wouldn't have gone there if she hadn't planned to keep her promise to talk to him in exchange for her escape from the studio and the murder investigation. That time had been one of tremendous stress for her, and he wanted to see her against another background, one of quiet safety. She was an enigma, with her cool, intelligent eyes and the poise of a frightened goddess ready for flight. He wanted to see her again to satisfy himself personally about her, almost as much as for any other reason he could think of.
It took twenty minutes for the desk clerk to rent a car for him and have it delivered. Durell bought a large street map, studied it while he waited, discovered the shortest route to Conley Road, and drove there as fast as traffic permitted.
At two o'clock in the morning, the road was a dim ribbon snaking out of the monotony of lower Brooklyn toward the shore. The streets were dark, cold, and wet. When the houses thinned out and the shimmering water appeared here and there like tentative pseudopods thrusting into the solidity of land, Durell drove the rented Chevy slower, checking house numbers. There was a stretch of three vacant blocks where no houses were in evidence; then two or three appeared; then none again. He thought he had gone too far when he saw the house ahead and knew at once that this was his objective.
It was big and old, high and arrogant, stained gray by wind and weather, but well kept. The road came to a dead end just beyond it. There was a small channel behind the house, a dim tongue of water that reached back into a vast area of grassy marsh and finally merged with the winter sea. The air was cold and raw, smelling of salt. There were no lights in the house as he drove by and parked at the barrier at the end of the road.
Durell turned up his coat collar as he walked back. There was a combination garage and boathouse behind the Victorian house, and he trudged across the lawn toward it, shivering in the raw November wind that swept in from the sea. He saw now that there was at least one lighted window in the house, where a slit of yellow glimmered from under a drawn blind on the north side. The boathouse door was open, yawning darkly. Blossom's car was there, between a skiff mounted on sawhorses and a small cabin cruiser up on a wheeled trailer. The car radiator was still warm. Turning, Durell walked back to the front porch of the house, found an old-fashioned iron bellpull in the door and yanked on it.
The faint murmuring of a man's voice inside stopped abruptly.
He rang again.
Someone started to cry out and there came the sharp sound of a blow, then silence again; and then footsteps approached as Durell considered trying to
He wanted to get to Stella.
He told himself that maybe this thing wasnt for him, and he could call McFee right now and get off it and then call Deirdre and have her wait up for him in her house on the Chesapeake and he could be there in three hours for coffee and sit with her by a fire in the fireplace when the sun came up this morning over the bay, with all the solitude and intimacy of her place just for the two of them.
He thought of Stella, remembered the crazy, hot look in Blossom's eyes when her name was mentioned, and something chilled in him and he felt fear for her, because Blossom hadn't taken her back to the district office for questioning. He had taken her someplace else. A private place. And Stella would have had to go along, like it or not, until it was too late when she discovered what Blossom might have had in mind...
Durell quit his hotel room abruptly. There was an urgency in him now. He was sure Stella Marni had some answers for him. And he wanted to know whether she had tricked him deliberately, or if Blossom had forced her away. He believed it to be the latter, since Stella had actually gone to his hotel room; she wouldn't have gone there if she hadn't planned to keep her promise to talk to him in exchange for her escape from the studio and the murder investigation. That time had been one of tremendous stress for her, and he wanted to see her against another background, one of quiet safety. She was an enigma, with her cool, intelligent eyes and the poise of a frightened goddess ready for flight. He wanted to see her again to satisfy himself personally about her, almost as much as for any other reason he could think of.
It took twenty minutes for the desk clerk to rent a car for him and have it delivered. Durell bought a large street map, studied it while he waited, discovered the shortest route to Conley Road, and drove there as fast as traffic permitted.
At two o'clock in the morning, the road was a dim ribbon snaking out of the monotony of lower Brooklyn toward the shore. The streets were dark, cold, and wet. When the houses thinned out and the shimmering water appeared here and there like tentative pseudopods thrusting into the solidity of land, Durell drove the rented Chevy slower, checking house numbers. There was a stretch of three vacant blocks where no houses were in evidence; then two or three appeared; then none again. He thought he had gone too far when he saw the house ahead and knew at once that this was his objective.
It was big and old, high and arrogant, stained gray by wind and weather, but well kept. The road came to a dead end just beyond it. There was a small channel behind the house, a dim tongue of water that reached back into a vast area of grassy marsh and finally merged with the winter sea. The air was cold and raw, smelling of salt. There were no lights in the house as he drove by and parked at the barrier at the end of the road.
Durell turned up his coat collar as he walked back. There was a combination garage and boathouse behind the Victorian house, and he trudged across the lawn toward it, shivering in the raw November wind that swept in from the sea. He saw now that there was at least one lighted window in the house, where a slit of yellow glimmered from under a drawn blind on the north side. The boathouse door was open, yawning darkly. Blossom's car was there, between a skiff mounted on sawhorses and a small cabin cruiser up on a wheeled trailer. The car radiator was still warm. Turning, Durell walked back to the front porch of the house, found an old-fashioned iron bellpull in the door and yanked on it.
The faint murmuring of a man's voice inside stopped abruptly.
He rang again.
Someone started to cry out and there came the sharp sound of a blow, then silence again; and then footsteps approached as Durell considered trying to
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